


High-Class

by the_nerd_word



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Sexual Content, Threesome - M/M/M, explicit everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:41:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_nerd_word/pseuds/the_nerd_word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos finds himself in bizarre circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning and Early Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seb_the_owl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seb_the_owl/gifts).



I go by Porthos now, but my name is Claude Roitz. I was born on Earth where everything is ruled by clean streets and dirty politics, and it all makes so much sense. I was born into class, into lunch parties and charity balls and other frivolous things meant for people with too much time and dime. I never had to work; when I wanted to go out, I used my father’s money; and I knew that one day, when he finally kicked it and I inherited the whole damn place, I would still be using his money, but then it would be legally mine. It was something to look forward to. 

But whatever, none of that happened because I joined the Alliance, and fuck if that wasn’t one of the worst decisions that had ever been made for me. 

Earth had wanted to “represent” itself in space to show its support or some shit; in poor men’s terms, they wanted to make sure they had a foot in the door if things actually worked out and we survived this mess. Wouldn’t do to let the colonists think they could get on without Earth’s influences. 

My younger brother hadn’t been old enough to enlist, so that left me; I just hoped he didn’t inherit everything if I died, because he was such an insufferable little shit, him and his stupid sweater vests. 

So here I am, enlisted and on some suicide mission. The work here isn’t bad. I’m lazy and selfish, yeah, okay, but I’m not stupid. I never try hard like Abel and Phobos (God forbid I get between that pissing match), but I do well enough to stay off the bottom. I’m happy with staying in the middle, unnoticed but not disdained. 

So I guess I slipped today, got careless and tried just a little too much because now Cook is looking at my monitor and I swear his breath is cool on my neck and creepy as fuck.

“This is an interesting choice of kinetics,” he says, like I’m supposed to know how to respond to that.

So I just say, “Sir” because, hell, I can be vague too. 

He hums shortly under his breath, glasses reflecting the glow from my screen. “And what would you do if the boosters were inhibited?”

I glance at my work, manage to keep from sighing but only barely. “Uh, I’d probably reverse flow from the external tank, sir. It’d be risky, but if the boosters are already inhibited, it’s your best bet.” 

Cook doesn’t say anything to that, and I wonder if I gave the wrong answer, but then he stands straighter, looks me over with cold eyes. “Meet in my office when you’re finished here.”

I try not to let my surprise show. “Yes, sir.” 

When he moves on to speak with Keeler, I glance over my shoulder at Phobos; he’s giving me this ugly, disbelieving look, like he didn’t know I could be smart, too. I shrug as if to tell him, “I don’t know either” even though it’s crap, of course I know, I always know what I’m doing, but this way maybe he won’t be as angry later. 

On the _Sleipnir_ or on Earth, politics are the same, and I know everything about that game.

I finish my work a couple hours later, just in time for lunch, only I have to go meet Cook so it doesn’t do me any good. Ignoring Phobos’ jealous eye roll, I sign out of my station and leave. 

The Commanders’ offices are down a level, giving me plenty of time to wonder what Cook could want. I really hope he doesn’t decide to put me on that special project with Abel, because if he does I’ll never hear the end of it; Phobos nags like a woman, and it’s fine when it’s directed at other people but I hate dealing with it myself. Besides, Abel’s a sanctimonious twat, and I don’t want to be stuck having to work with him. 

If Cook gives me my own assignment, well shit, that’s just more work. 

I see Cook’s assistant first, give him the proper acknowledgement before stating my task name like he doesn’t already know, formalities being formalities. He nods and signs me in before telling me that I can go ahead, so I knock at the office door. 

“Come in,” Cook says, and his voice is sharp even when it’s on the other side of a wall. Great. 

I step inside and stand at attention. “Sir.”

He looks me up and down like he’s measuring my value, and if it wasn’t a look I was so accustomed to receiving I might feel self-conscious. Instead, I just wait for him to finish, to say, “At ease.” 

I relax some but don’t take a seat because it isn’t offered. 

“That was some impressive work,” Cook tells me, hands steeped together on his freakishly organized desk. “I’ve seen your file, of course. You’re a quiet man, never do much to get noticed.”

I refrain some raising my eyebrows, not entirely sure how to respond, again, and isn’t that a fucking trend with Cook today? “I just try to do my job, sir.”

Cook nods, like he expected I’d say as much. “I like that in a soldier,” he tells me, leaning back a little in his chair so that I feel like I’m being inspected again. “You’re a fascinating mix of genes, Porthos. Smart and discreet like a navigator, but built rather like a fighter.”

I guess I just prove his point then, because I stand there with what has to be this dumb expression as I stare, wary about the tone of this conversation. “I suppose so, sir,” I answer slowly, and Cook suddenly smirks, and man do I stand up a little straighter when he does.

“Quiet is good,” he assures me, taking his time to get up, moving almost languidly, and it’s weird with how he’s made of all these sharp angles. He stops in front of me, tall enough to nearly look me in the eyes, and he tilts his head to the side like I’m the quadratic fucking formula, about to solve all his problems. “Tell me, can you fuck like a fighter?”

And that’s when I lose my shit a little, because _hell fucking no_ , this is not happening. “Sir?” My voice is way too high, like I’m cruising through puberty all over again. 

He puts a hand on my arm, fingers lightly massaging my bicep, and I take the most awful breath through my nose because I don’t trust the panicked sound trying to come out of my mouth. “Let’s see if you can navigate your way around me,” he purrs by my ear, using his free hand to slip his glasses off, put them on his desk. 

“Wow,” I mouth, and it’s hardly even a whisper, more like air, and I feel my eyes like they’re about to pop, and I’m standing so straight it’s like I’m the poster boy for at-attention. “Sir,” I say, sounding only a little strangled. “Sir, I don’t think…”

“It’s fine,” he assures me, like I’m worried about regulation, like I’m worried about anyone finding out when really, all I can think about is how he’s probably close to forty-five years old and I’m a handsome twenty-four, way too young and way too _fine_ to be playing with wrinkled dick, and he’s probably slept with half the navigators on this ship, and I know exactly how nasty some of these white haired geeks are, and I want _no part_ of that, or this, or whatever, but Cook’s loosening his jacket and I’m just standing here with my mouth open while I ramble in my head because holy shit fuck, how do I reject my Commanding officer?

“Sir,” I try again, clearing my throat, “with all due respect, I don’t –”

There’s an indignant snipe from the other room, then the door opens and Commander Bering is there, pointedly ignoring Cook’s squawking assistant, and I could kiss his feet with how grateful I am for the interruption. 

He leans in the doorway, looking smug and knowing. “How inappropriate,” he slurs as he stares at us, crossing his arms. 

I feel myself sag a little with relief, and I try to smile past all the awkwardness, but then Cook says, “Oh, shut up and get in here. Close the door,” and suddenly, Bering’s crappy beard looks much more lecherous, and then the door is shut and they’re _both_ looking at me like they can undress me with their eyes, and _holy shit fuck hell fuck_ , I don’t want to be boned by _two_ old dicks.

Desperately, I take a step back, instinctively raising my hands. “Sirs, I- I don’t –”

Bering starts to mouth the line of Cook’s neck, sucking a little. He chuckles quietly, dark eyes watching me the whole time, fingers moving to lightly play against Cook’s waist. “I don’t think he’s interested, baby.”

Cook lets out a sharp, unhappy breath and scowls at us both. “He was perfectly into it before you showed up.”

And I want to be like _what the fuck made you think that_ but I don’t because I’m pretty sure I would just throw up in my mouth a little, so I just stand there looking pathetic.

Bering seems to understand at least, because he gives me this horribly amused look, almost condescending, and I hate seeing it on a fighter’s face even if it is the Commander’s. “Dismissed.”

I don’t need to be told twice. Hell, I hardly had to be told the first time. I get out of there, and I swear I can hear that fucking secretary laughing under his breath but I don’t dare look back in case the Commanders are watching me leave or, God forbid, touching each other anymore.

My appetite is tanked, but I still have twenty minutes for lunch so I decide to find Phobos. I need a dose of reality, to get rid of the traumatizing realization of what had almost happened in that office. Lucky for me, Phobos is easy to find, sitting at our usual table in the mess hall, eating his lunch with his nose in the air like he’s any fucking better than the other navigators. Truth is, he’s not, not at all; the son of lucky investor who struck big, whole family sitting on new money. It’s all very unattractive. Still, we get along for the most part, and unlike him I am better than most of the losers here, so I don’t have much to choose from. 

When I sit across from him, he puts his glass down loudly and leans forward. “Porthos,” he says, like I don’t know my own name. “What the hell? What happened?”

I shrug, give him an indifferent stare. “He liked my work.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” I assure him.

Of course, Phobos likes to get offended over everything. “You bitch. I work twice as hard as you.”

I nod, even agree with him.

“You probably sucked his cock to get him to look at you like that.”

“No,” I say too quickly, and he gives me a long, thoughtful look, as surprised by my quick denial as I am. 

“Wait,” he says, then drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper because new money is predictable; he loves trash and gossip. “Did you? Did you suck his cock?”

I roll my eyes and motion to his food. “No. Finish your lunch.”

Phobos slings his plate on his tray without any consideration for the small mess. He stands, waiting on me to do the same, excited for a story. “Tell me everything.”

I sigh and accept defeat, don’t want to bother even putting up a fight. Besides, I doubt he’ll believe half of what I say. He’s like that, eager for gossip but quick to disdain what he hears. “Nothing really happened, it was just weird.”

“How weird?” he asks, putting his tray on the disposal belt. 

“Fucked up weird,” I sigh, leading the way out. 

He’s quick to follow, lengthening his strides to match mine. “Details, come on. Did you make-out? Anybody get naked? Did you _both_ get naked? Does he really shave down there?”

“Stop, stop.” I run a hand over my face, regretting this whole day. “It didn’t get that bad.”

Phobos starts to round the corner, still looking at me. “Then how – ugh, watch it!” he snaps when he has to abruptly sidestep a fighter. He adjusts his shirt like the close encounter did anything, but he should have just kept moving, because then the fighter gives a full toothed grin and pinches Phobos’ ass. 

And that's when I know we're in trouble.

“You ugly pig,” Phobos sneers. “Get your cheap, lowlife hands off me.” 

Any other time, Phobos might have flirted a bit. He likes to toss his hips and act like a slut, especially when his own fighter is watching, but he always bends over for gossip first.

So here we are, right outside the mess hall, and this large, brutish fighter with a crooked jaw doesn’t particularly like being called a lowlife. His expression turns sour, and he takes a step toward Phobos. “What did you say, bitch?”

Phobos swallows, it’s obvious, but he stands his ground, throws his chin out like that’ll do him any good. “You heard me,” he says, trying to sound tough. “Don’t touch me. Now, be on your way.” 

A few other soldiers have stopped to watch, curious or maybe eager for a fight. There's too much tension on the ship, too much unrestrained aggression. I know it, the others know it, and I think right then even Phobos knows it.

The fighter gives Phobos a shove, like a bully picking on a child, big versus small. “You’re going to apologize,” he snarls. Because there’s a crowd, because it would be humiliating for a navigator to publically apologize to a fighter. 

Phobos snorts, manages to sound braver than I know he really is. “I’m not doing anything for you, you toad.”

I barely move in time, don’t even really know what drives me. But suddenly I’m shoving Phobos to the side and taking the clip of the fighter’s punch. Pain flares in my shoulder, but then I raise my own fists. I use my body as force, crashing the knuckles of my right hand into his nose. There’s an audible crack, and then he’s going down, clutching at his face as blood gushes from between his fingers. I stare, waiting for him to try to make another move, wondering if his nose will match his jaw now. 

There’s a collective “Ohhh!” from around us, and then everybody hushes as Lieutenant Encke’s deep voice cuts through the crowd. “Clear the hall, or you’ll all be running laps.”

Phobos sends me a panicked look as fighters and navigators alike spare us last glances before going back to their respective jobs. I consider leaving, trying to blend in with the others, but there’s blood on my hand and too many people saw me throw the punch, so I figure I’m too fucked to bother walking away. 

Then Encke is there with his sergeant, looking righteously pissed. He glares at each of us, me and Phobos and the teary eyed fighter. “Why the fuck is my lunch break being interrupted?” he demands, and I think to myself that this day can’t get any weirder.


	2. Afternoon

My first mistake was oatmeal. I should’ve known, should’ve gone without food this morning, because oatmeal is the shittiest excuse for breakfast I’ve ever had the displeasure of eating. 

My second mistake was trying too hard in the lab. Granted, I didn’t know I was trying too hard at the time, but now I’ll know to try even less. The standards around here must really be dropping, but whatever. Doing something well had only made Cook notices me, and wasn’t that the scariest fucking thing that had happened ever since I enlisted? Maybe the real Colterons were just the Commanders’ dicks, jeez.

My third mistake was telling myself that Phobos was good enough, because obviously he isn’t and hanging out with him is obviously just some subconscious desire to die on my part. If I somehow manage to survive this whole mess and get back to Earth, I’m finding the closest, most expensive shrink and bringing my private Argentinean masseuse with me. 

I miss home. Never had to deal with shit like this at home.

Phobos makes this really unattractive whine like he’s about to pitch a fit. “This boob attacked me, Lieutenant Encke! Like an animal! If Porthos hadn’t been here, I could’ve been assaulted.” 

Encke looks like he wants to roll his eyes, probably tired and irritable like everyone else on this stupid ship. “Get up, Marius,” he snaps, motioning to the still-whimpering fighter.

The “boob” makes a show of standing up, hands red and dripping as he tries to stem the flow from his nose. The skin under his eyes is already starting to swell, turning dark with bruising. 

Encke gives him a glance and lets out a sharp breath. He turns to me, scowling. “You did that?”

I nod. “Sir.”

Encke looks back to Marius. “Fuck, son, I’ve told you to stay out of trouble, and now you’ve been whooped by a navigator.” He grimaces, showing in his expression exactly how he feels about that, and I’m a little offended. “Looks broken. Get your ass to medical.”

The fighter, Marius I guess, mumbles something that sounds vaguely like an affirmative before he’s escorted away by the sergeant. 

I wonder if we’ll be allowed to go back to the lab, but Encke isn’t finished. He gives Phobos this cold and admittedly somewhat sexy scowl. “You, you’re partnered with Deimos, aren’t you?” Phobos nods, thrusts one hip out like he’s going to try to sway the conversation, but Encke cuts him off. “Figures. Quit antagonizing my fighters with your petty drama. And you,” he turns to me, ignoring Phobos’ hilariously indignant mouth-drop, “if you were one of mine, I’d have you in PT until you puked. Since you’re not, we’re going to visit Keeler.”

“Yes sir,” I say, wishing I had just let the fighter smack Phobos around a little instead of intervening.

I guess I’m a bleeding heart at my core.

We leave Phobos standing there looking properly chastised. The walk is quiet, and other soldiers avoid looking at us like the rumor of “the fight” has already spread. Encke looks back at me once, but just because I punched a fighter doesn’t make me stupid like one; I’m not going to try anything, certainly not when it’d get me into more trouble. 

I expect to end up in one of the Lieutenant’s offices, but instead we turn in the opposite direction and enter the officers’ lounge- a dinky little room with a couch and a refrigerator and some counter space for preparing a meal. 

“Sit,” Encke commands me, pointing to the couch. 

I do as I’m told, trying not to make a face over the stiff, uncomfortable cushions. My ass is made for the finer things in life, but I guess the military doesn't agree. Encke’s ignoring me now, poking through the contents of the fridge with an unhappy little side. It’s all very mundane, but then he pulls out a ziplock bag like this is my grandmother’s fucking kitchen, and I swear it's stuffed with a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich. 

I used to see Puck eat those damned things all the time. It only figures that the pink-haired nut would make them for the lieutenants now that he's been promoted to Keeler’s assistant. Too sweet for my tastes, but I hope some of that friendly energy rubs off on Encke, because his expression is far from chipper when he sits down across from me. 

Several minutes go by, me staring at my boots and Encke eating his sandwich. He somehow manages to keep his face clean, but it looks like a chore. When he finishes, I finally get impatient, very politely ask, “With all due respect, sir, what are we doing?”

Encke grunts, doesn’t look as annoyed as I thought he would. “Keeler is running calibrations right now. But he usually stops by for a quick bite to eat in private. I imagine he’ll be here soon. And I wanted something on my stomach.” He abruptly sighs and runs a hand over his closely trimmed mohawk. “Look, uh…”

“Porthos, sir,” I offer smoothly. 

“Look, Porthos, Marius is a bastard. He’s been causing trouble from day one, so I’m not saying I approve of what happened, but I’m not surprised. You get me?”

I nod and try to keep from smirking. “Yes, sir.” 

Encke fiddles with the ziplock bag, pressing the ends down without looking, looking so tired, so worn out. “There can’t be any fighting though, no matter who started what, even if Marius deserved it. Though…” He slides a peanut butter covered thumb across his tongue and offers a small but honest smile. “That must’ve been one helluva punch. Wish I could’ve seen it.”

I’m surprised at that smile. It’s warm and casual, something I never expect to see from someone like Lieutenant Encke. “Well, take it from me, the son of a bitch has a hard face.” I rub at my knuckles, then belatedly remember to add, “Sir.” 

Encke lets out a bark for a laugh and throws the ziplock bag to the side. “I don’t doubt it. I’m surprised he didn’t manage to land a hit on you, no offense. Navigators don’t normally, you know, fight back, or even know how.”

I shrug, letting the insult dissolve because I don’t expect much from fighters. “I used to box in high school. We’re not all weak, no matter what you fighters might believe, sir.” I hesitate, finally admit, “He clipped me though.”

Encke blinks and shows a little concern; his amber eyes search my face, so I clarify. “Just my shoulder.”

“Sore?” he asks, and when I nod he stands up and goes to the counter. He gets another plastic bag from a cabinet and fills it with ice from the tiny freezer space in the back of the fridge. “Here,” he says, sealing the top and tossing the bag my way. 

I catch it a bit clumsily, not expecting the sympathy or the toss. “Thanks, sir.”

Encke nods, probably used to readying homemade ice packs, and sits across from me again, watching as I press the ice to my shoulder. “I know, by the way.”

Another toss, but this time words, and I still fumble. “Excuse me, sir?”

“What you said just a minute ago, about not all navigators being weak. I know.” His face gets softer so that he looks almost pretty, all this kindness over hard lines and strong cheekbones. “Keeler’s strong. One of the strongest men I know. Scrawny as hell though.”

I laugh before I can stop myself, surprised and entertained. “Sorry. But yeah, he is, sir.”

“You remind me of him a little,” Encke adds, giving me a curious look. 

“Do I? How so? Sir.”

Encke shrugs. “Not sure. You just do.” He stares at me a bit, calm and gorgeous and maybe even a little amused, eyes shining like wealth. 

“Careful, sir,” I quietly warn him, knowing that look. “I might punch like a fighter, but I class myself more than any other navigator.”

His eyebrows shoot up, like he can’t believe I would say that to him. “You trying to tell me you’re too good for me?”

I smile, let my lips be slow and lazy. “No, sir. Not just you. Everyone.”

Encke whistles, looks away for a second before finding my eyes again. “Arrogant.”

“No reason not to be.”

He leans forward suddenly, closing the space between us until only a few inches of air pass between our faces. He smells like every other fighter, like sweat and muscle and heat; but also like spice, some familiar tang, and after a moment I realize Keeler smells the same. “What makes you think,” he whispers, voice low and deep, “that I want someone like you?”

I lean in too, matching his movements, showing him I can do anything he can, match his whisper, too. “Because everyone does.”

He laughs, and then those lips are on mine, and I can taste that chuckle, that breathless smile. He presses forward like I’ll go back, like I didn’t already tell him that I’m strong, better than those white-haired dorks. So I push him, shove quickly at his shoulders so that he falls in his chair, and before he can react or wonder or worry, I’m on him, straddling his lap, nipping and kissing and tasting, taking and giving control because we’re both aggressive, both wanting something hot and good. 

He runs his hands over my body, under my shirt, and his palms are rough like I knew they would be, his grip strong and confident. I keen under my breath, let him know what I’m feeling as his lips and tongue tease and test and take. 

His hands move to grab my ass, but I don’t let him think this’ll be easy, that he can bully his way into this one. I slap his hands away, give another rough shove even though he’s already pressed against the chair. I nip at his neck like it’s a warning, and then I reach behind him, slip my hands into his pants. This time he matches me, following suit by gripping my wrists and holding them over my head. He growls against my collar, making noise in between kisses, and then he quickly picks me up, moving before I can squirm. He tosses me back on the couch like I weigh nothing, like I’m not nearly his size, and then he stands over me, not moving, not saying anything, just watching me with those gorgeous amber eyes, smiling and sweet-looking.

It’s fucking sexy. 

“You have a lot of convincing to do,” I tell him, voice thick and a little breathless, because I'm sure as fuck not bottoming without some proper motivation.

He smiles again, because it’s obvious I’m already half-hard, and I’m willing to lay on the couch in some vulnerable situation while he looks down on me, a man of authority, a man of good breeding even if he’s Colonial. He takes a step forward and rests one knee on the couch so that he’s really leaning over me, chest hovering above mine, breath intermingling with mine. 

I can’t help but run my tongue up the side of his neck. Can’t help the moan that follows either. “God, you taste like home,” I murmured throatily. 

He nuzzles my jaw, plants light kisses on my lips. “Where’re you from, baby?” Softly, quietly, gently, but his hands are moving under my shirt and they’re anything but; they’re strong and rough and wanting, and I love it. I flex into his touch, moan again when his fingers press to hard. 

“New Orleans,” I tell him, twisting and arching, my own hands finding his ass again. 

He opens his mouth to mine, swallowing that sentiment as our tongues move back and forth. 

Before things can go any further, the door to the hallway opens, and we both look over at a clearly surprised Keeler. 

“Encke?” he asks, eyes flicking from his partner to me. “And Porthos? Oh. Oh, I’m sorry…” 

He starts to turn a way, and I give Encke a little shove to get off, worried that this is about to turn into some awkward quarrel and that Keeler will take it out on me for the rest of my service. 

Encke, though, only smiles warmly at Keeler; he stands up and takes the Lead Navigator’s hand, pulls him back inside. “Stay, please. We were only getting started.” He drops his voice to a murmur, so I barely catch his next words: “We could both use it.”

Then they’re looking at me, polar opposites except for the exhaustion and curiosity in their eyes, and déjà vu gives me the ultimate bitch slap. I swing my legs over the couch and sit up with a reasonable frown. “You- Do you guys plan this shit? The officers?” 

They both look confused, and then Keeler looks outright regretful. “I should go,” he tells Encke quietly, voice barely a murmur. “You two were enjoying yourselves and I don’t think he’s comfortable with one more.”

“No, no, no,” I say, shaking my head and holding up a hand before Encke can say anything. “It’s fine, whatever.” If this really is random, then it’s some weird-ass coincidence, but they’re both fucking hot and I’m not letting what was turning out to be a perfectly good erection go to waste. I lay back on the couch again, taking my time about it so it’s smooth and teasing. I watch their eyes follow my movement, both of them interested. Even so, they don’t budge from in front of the door, and I start to wonder if I’ve embarrassed myself. "Well?"

Then Keeler’s moving like a desperate man. He comes over to the couch and steps up, easily keeping his balance as he crouches between my legs. His nimble fingers begin to undo my pants, and Encke’s mouth falls on mine again, heavy and crushing and perfect. 

I moan when my dick is free, giving a little shudder because Keeler starts to breathe on the head, letting out these short spurts of warm breath so that I’m eager for him. But Encke won’t let me forget him either; he pulls off my shirt and starts to suck on my nipples, back and forth with his affections, hands playing over the smooth line of my stomach.

A part of me feels a bit jittery over how I’m sprawled out naked on a couch in front of both superiors, but the rest of me thinks it’s the fucking sexiest thing I’ve done in a while.

And hey, I have a great body. 

“Fuck,” I cry out when Keeler suddenly wraps his lips around my cock, sucking and gently pulling, using his tongue to press at the sides. I can see his head bob up and down in my peripheral, and I reach for that braid, wanting to grip those white curls. 

In front of me, on his knees so that my face is level with his hips, Encke undresses. His underwear are the last thing to go, and then his dick is out, hard and dark and tempting, so I lick along the shaft. He grunts and thrusts his hips by my face, careful not to be an ass about it, and I plant kisses every place my lips can touch. 

The heat on my own cock is so nice, so enveloping, and my toes curl when Keeler goes all the way down on me. “Ah! Lieutenant,” I gasp, unable to keep from grinning, taking a moment to lick Encke’s dripping cock before closing my eyes at the bliss. “So talented.”

Keeler chuckles, and I can feel the vibration all down my dick, and it’s the most beautiful fucking thing. I give Encke the compliment instead, twisting my neck to give a hard suck on the head of his cock, pleased when he moans and grips my strip of hair, not pushing but roughly holding, just the way I like it.

If Keeler doesn’t stop, I’m going to come in the back of his throat. Shit, I really want to, but I’m not an ass, and the poor guy always looks so tired. I pull my mouth away from Encke for a moment, leaving a small line of saliva from his shaft to my mouth before I wipe my lips on the back of my hand. “Keeler,” I say, mouth thick. “Keeler, stop.” He looks up, and I could come just from seeing those pretty eyes look up at me from between my legs, but I clench my stomach and force myself to hold it back. He looks almost disappointed, like he’s suddenly unsure of what to do if this is over, but I smile, give him the nicest fucking present I ever give anybody; I’m a bleeding heart, like I said.

“Fuck me,” I tell him, chewing on my lower lip eagerly. “Fuck me, you sweet-ass lieutenant.” 

I lean back again, let my head fall on the cushion, but not before I see that delicious look of surprise on Keeler’s face, that hot desire. 

Then everything is a blinding rush of limbs and kisses and skin and thrusts and gasps and heat and moans, and I willingly lose myself.

The superiors play their parts, and they play them well. 

Encke fucks my mouth while Keeler fucks my ass, and I’m on my back with my knees on my chest and my tongue doing curls like sex is the only thing my body will ever need again. My thighs are burning with all the exertion and the feeling is fucking gold. I arch my back with each of Keeler’s deep, filling thrusts, letting my hips roll with his, letting his gasps drive my own. He fucks like he hasn’t in a while, heavy and needy, but I don’t mind because it’s so damn good; neither of them probably have much time for anything but exhausted nights, restless sleep, so this must be something valuable. Even Encke’s gone drunk with it, mouth parted as he gives these short, catching breaths, hips jerking as I suck up and down his cock with experience. He runs his fingers through my mohawk, against the side of my face and along my chest, caressing like this is something sweet. I taste pre-come in the back of my mouth, beading against my throat because so much of him is in my mouth, but Keeler comes first like I knew he would. 

There are pleasured cries and shuddering thighs, and Keeler shakes as he shoots off; this fucking heat fills my ass, makes me suddenly realize we didn’t spare a damn thoughts for condoms. He pulls out mostly and fingers my ass before pressing back in, shallow and slow. I moan, still aching and hard, and I can hear him laugh before he pushes back in with more force, taking my cock in his hand at the same time, too kind to get off without sharing the love.

I suck and suck, urging Encke to come because despite Keeler’s kind concern, I’m already so close. Encke loses whatever control he had when I hum and keen, and he fucks my face harder than before, but not cruel enough to choke me, only enough to really test my own abilities. And damn, like I’ve been saying this whole time, I’m a helluva guy.

I’m not sure who comes first, but all of a sudden we’re both gasping and writhing, bodies hot and sweaty and young and beautiful. Encke has enough courtesy to pull out, finishes himself off with his own hand so that he’s just saying, “Fuck, fuck!” over and over as I close my eyes and wish Keeler could stay between my legs forever. 

We’re one big mess, happily spent and leaning into each other when it’s all over. I relax my legs, and Keeler curls up against my side. There’s barely any room for it, but it’s nice, really nice, and he smiles so prettily I’d never be able to say no. Encke’s resting on one hip, head on my shoulder, breathing one content sigh after another. I play with the ends of Keeler’s hair, smirking over how we’ve managed to make everything sticky. 

Keeler turns his head and kisses one of my nipples distractingly, expression soft, body pliant. “Encke?” he murmurs.

The fighter lifts his head, so damn happy looking. “Hm?”

“What were you guys doing in here in the first place?”

I blink, recalling a conversation that feels out of place now, and then I laugh. “Well, uh, I punched a fighter.”

“So he was supposed to get punished,” Encke finishes for me.

Keeler looks at the both of us, white hair in a mess at his shoulders, blue eyes bright and gorgeous. He laughs, and the sound matches. “I guess he was.” 

I just smirk, licking come off my thumb. “Yes, sir.”


End file.
